


Freak

by rranne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, Prequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rranne/pseuds/rranne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes introduces Sally Donovan as an ‘old friend’; she does not correct him on this. He always knows what she’s thinking and she says ‘he will always let you down.’ Um, well, that is enough to be going on about isn’t it?<br/>This is the story of Sherlock/Sally and it begins about three years before series one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dubious Introduction

“Who’s that, “newly promoted Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan asked her boss as they entered the freshly renovated, still being stocked, boutique on Kensington High Street, “…and why is he here? He’s not suited up. He shouldn’t be here, this is a crime scene. Is he trained for this?” 

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was already used to her persistent string of questions. He liked it - a lot; it confirmed he had made a good choice in requesting her for his team. Inquisitiveness; that was always a good quality in a detective. 

“Is that him?” She asked referring back to their earlier conversation.

The half-nod he gave her was not really an answer. He gave the bodies a quick appraisal as he knelt down beside the young man who was examining them. 

“Sherlock, this is Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, she’s new,” Lestrade said by way of introduction “…don’t break her,” he added.

Sherlock glanced up, not actually looking at the new detective, but acknowledging her presence then rocked calmly back on his heels and began to rattle off all the reasons why this was not a double murder and suicide of the killer, as reported, but rather a triple murder, with the killer still at large. 

“He’s a smoker,” the dark-haired figure crouched beside the bodies started. “There are nicotine stains on the fingers of his right hand, he smokes with his right hand – he is right handed. The knife was placed in his left, it was easier for the killer to put it there, he’s not lying on it – plus, hard to shoot yourself with a knife in your other hand, normal reaction would be to drop it. There are no powder burns on said right hand, probably no powder burns at all except for right around the wound. The wound is close range, but directly into the chest, perpendicular, hard to get that angle if he shot himself and - where’s the gun?” It was obviously a rhetorical question, it wasn’t there. It was missing, that’s precisely why the Yard had been called in – a gunshot suicide with a missing weapon. 

Sally found his pronunciation and elocution crystal cut; his expressive baritone, quite pleasant; his deductions, if they proved true, were astounding, if only for his confidence in their certainty and the speed at which he came by them. She was fascinated and quite frankly, intrigued. 

“The shot would have killed him in and the gun should be here - or at least, under where he fell. It’s not. The killer took it with her. There is a little…puddle…of blood – from the knife, over there, where it landed when it was thrown. The killer stepped in it when retrieving the knife and before purposely putting it in the man’s hand as a cover-up. “

“Jealous boyfriend scenario then,” Lestrade asked. 

“Girlfriend, more likely,” He began again, continuing the summation.

“The killer accidentally stepped in the blood from the knife,” he said again gesturing with a hand flutter at a nearly invisible trail of footprints, “… the heel marks - stiletto heels, roughly - size four, too small to be a man’s, even if the killer was a transvestite of smallish build, that’s still not enough mass for a male. No, the killer was a woman, petite, heel impressions are faint; the black light should still show a trail of them from there to here.” 

He observed the new sergeant standing on the extremely fragile blood trail left by the stiletto heels as he pointed it out to Lestrade and promptly shoed her off of it, slightly irritated at her inadvertent smudging of the evidence and also noticing that she was staring at him. 

Grey eyes meet brown, momentarily; leaving no comment, Sherlock turned his attention back to the bodies, thinking a bit before continuing with the summary. 

“Is he making this up or…” She trailed off quietly asking Lestrade and hoping that the man sitting on his heels with his fingers forming a steeple under his chin contemplating the three bodies sprawled about the boutique’s floor could not hear her; she didn’t want to be overtly rude. They’d only just met, after all.

Lestrade shook his head slightly; pulled chalk out of his pocket and carefully marked the areas Sherlock indicated. Sally took this all as a _‘he’s not making it up,’_ and continued her observation more attentively.

“The killer probably walked in on the brunette and the redhead having a row. Look at their clothes – expensive, probably from stock - they‘re the proprietors then - but disheveled, cat-fight most likely. She stabbed the brunette - that will be the brunette’s blood on her hand…”

Sally noticed the smallest smudge of blood on the redhead’s well-manicured fingertips. She cocked her head to listen more carefully to what the odd _consultant_ was saying.

“…and then threw the knife in shock response to what she had done,” he finished the thought, pausing a moment before he began again.

“The man walked in with the killer, or shortly thereafter, both probably seeking confrontations with their respective lovers only to find them otherwise engaged in a lover’s spat of their own. The man - he was the redhead’s lover and possibly the killer’s as well – lipstick, faint, there,” he motioned toward the man’s right shirt cuff with a gloved hand, “…matches the color she’s wearing. The lipstick on the collar is a different shade - not the brunette’s, it’s the killer’s.”

Donovan and Lestrade both followed his narrative through with their eyes. 

“ The man would have knelt by the brunette, probably checking the extent of her wounds - traces of blood on the left knee of this trousers, that will be the brunette’s, she was already been stabbed - while asking the redhead what had happened.” 

“The killer, distraught at the sight of her lover, the brunette, bleeding and surrounded by the other two - fired at the redhead first - probably the newest and least liked of the group, the interloper in the relationship - killing her. The man moved to confront her; she fired reflexively, killing him, then not wanting her lover’s, reputation to be tarnished by being caught in a lesbian relationship with the redhead, who was probably a business partner in this establishment and probably also a frequent lover of both the man and the brunette and also to protect her own reputation from tarnish, she tries to frame him for the stabbing, placing the knife in the man’s hands.” 

“Be careful with the knife,” he paused, looking up sharply at the DC who was about to bag the knife, “…there will be at least three sets of prints on it.” Sherlock added with a glance to Lestrade who quickly shot look to the officer confirming the instruction. Sherlock nodded a faint acknowledgement then continued, “…then, stupidly, she forgets to leave the gun – that would have convinced **_you lot_** that this was a simple three person murder suicide; but no, she took it with her - find the gun and you find the killer of the man and the redhead. The redhead killed the brunette.”

“Follow that Donovan?” Lestrade asked warily. He had barely followed the rapid succession himself, but it had sounded plausible to him, if even somewhat probable. 

Sally’s expression told him at a glance that she did not completely follow it. She had lost the trail somewhere around mention of the lipstick or the look into the eyes, she wasn’t sure which. 

“No matter, you will, in time.” Lestrade also rose from his kneeling position. “See that forensics gets everything he said, and checks the heel trail.” He added. 

Sherlock rose from his crouch and wandered about, eyes swiftly surveying the room, up and down, left and right, for anything he may have missed. Satisfied he had culled everything pertinent to the crime; he grabbed his overcoat and headed for the door without as much as a parting gesture.

Lestrade and Sally both watched as Sherlock exchanged a few words with the forensics team, just now arriving with their equipment. He searched through his coat pockets absently for a cigarette and lighter. 

“So, what’s wrong with him?” Sally asked. “Well, other than…how the bleeding hell did he **_do_** that! He was here, what, two minutes, and he got all that?” 

Lestrade’s face lit up like a child with a barely kept secret. He gave a motion that indicated they would talk later and went to join the consulting detective outside. He left his own brief instructions with the forensics team on his way out.

Sally watched the unlikely pair; it is a friendly rapport, indicating a long association. She wondered how it came about. 

DI Lestrade was a bit of an enigma. She had been extremely proud and flattered when she’d got word that Lestrade had personally requested her for his team and then was equally terrified that she would not measure up. His team had the best solved case record in the Yard, but also an in-house reputation for walking on the brink of the great proper-policy abyss as far as procedure went; one misstep on that razor-edged line and you would find yourself cut and bleeding in a heap at the bottom and she had been there, nursing her wounds and looking up, for most of the time she had spent on the force. It was not a place she either wanted or intended to go to again.

“Sergeant, the Inspector said that you had some specific evidence for us to collect first, before we begin standard procedures?” 

“Oh, uh … yes. We need lipstick samples from both female victims with corresponding samples from the smudges on the male victim’s collar and lower right shirt cuff.” She glanced out the boutique front window to see Lestrade now leaning on the bicycle carriage outside the shop and begging a fag from the younger man. _Not only a boy’s club…thought he said he’d quit..._ random thoughts invaded her instructions. 

“Blood samples, with PRC panels, from all the victims’ hands and from the knee of the male’s left trouser leg and anywhere else you might find them. There is a blood trail here, we’ll need a PRC panel again and series of photographs under the light. Also, the knife might have layers of prints; take care to prevent further degradation of the bottom ones. Oh, and check the male for stray hairs and traces of makeup, particularly those not from the other two victims.” She smiled at that last, her own contribution. She wanted some confirmation of the presence of a third female, the _alleged_ killer. 

Another glance out the window and she would swear by the way his lips were moving that Lestrade was saying _...and Sherlock, clean it up a bit first..._ to the consulting detective as he walked off. 

Shaking his head after the young man, Lestrade took one last hit off the fag, clearly savouring it before he snuffed it out and started back in. 

“I think it’s all covered here. You ready to head back?” Lestrade asked, working his way through the forensics team’s equipment. 

“I think I’ll stay a bit, if I can?” 

Lestrade shrugged; it was her break-in period, a practice he instituted for his team to allow observations on both sides before fully settling in on the job. He found that two weeks was sufficient to tell if someone was going to work out or if he needed to request someone else for the job. Sally Donovan was working out extremely well in all areas. She was proving to be a keeper. 

“Think you can handle the report then,” he asked holding out the clipboard.

“I got it,” she said and took the clip board with a smile.

“Good. I’ll take Jones back to the office then. Case is yours. You’ve got Thompson and Rihaj for leg work.”

Sally jumped on that, “…as soon as we run contact information on the victims, I’ll get them on it.” 

That was just what he was going to suggest. He nodded and headed out the door.

-o0o- 

Sherlock didn’t need a flat mate, especially not a young attractive female one, really not his area, and definitely not a police officer, not a detective - didn’t really need that right now either. He suspected that Lestrade was trying to keep tabs on him, _he gets more and more like Mycroft every day. I don’t need a keeper. I’m clea… okay, well maybe, not so much. It’s been so **hatefully** boring lately...Lestrade knows. How? How does Lestrade know? How does he know? I haven’t even been looking at him, avoiding eye contact when possible; ah…I usually **do** look at him. That’s it. Problem! _

_Problem...problem...problem! How to fix? Fix? FIX? Brilliant idea._ Sherlock grabbed his coat and checked the skull for available cash as he headed out to find Raz.

-o0o-

It was already close to the end of shift when Sally got back to Scotland Yard: a suspect had been apprehended and was being questioned downstairs and the details of the case report still needed fine tuning. She had no idea how to handle the use of a ‘consultant’ when it came to the official paperwork, there wasn’t a code for that. She did the only thing she could, she asked. 

Detective Sergeant Jones was at his desk and a grin was already spreading across his face as she approached him. 

“Questions about use of the Freak on official reports is it, Donovan?” He queried smugly.

She glared at him on the use of the word ‘freak’, she had already found out that Jones could be a bit of a bigoted arse at times, then conceded with a shrug that in fact, that was what she needed to know.

“Simple,” he replied. “…anything he said pans out, you put it in as if he wasn’t there.”

“He doesn’t get any credit?” 

“He doesn’t want any. That’s not what he does it for.” 

“So, what **_does_** he do it for?”

“He does it for the kick, the thrill, and Donovan, you know what,” he paused, putting on his best leer before he went on; “…he gets off on it.” Jones finished with an obscene gesture for emphasis. 

Sally was caught in Jones’s jape, a furious blush rising on her face. 

“The man’s a psychopath.” He finished, seriously. 

Rihaj chuckled at the interchange, catching the last of it. “Sally, just write it up like he said, like the team came up with everything and don’t worry, Lestrade will check it before it goes in, he always does.” 

Sally sat at her desk, shaking her head at being taken in by Jones, and started on the case notes. 

Just after the end of the shift, the lab results had come back; Lestrade’s odd colleague had been spot-on with the blood samples and the statements of the victim’s acquaintances seemed to back up his proposed sequence of events rather accurately. 

The alleged _… well, by now, ‘confessed’, I guess…_ killer, one Victoria Reynolds, was the fiancé of the murdered man and was the former lover of the brunette woman, Estelle Johan. The three victims along with the murderer were partners in the boutique venture, with Ms. Reynolds and her fiancé being the major financial backers. Constance Perchance, the redheaded victim, was apparently having simultaneous affairs with the fiancé and Ms. Reynolds as well as being the live-in companion of the other partner, Ms. Johan. It had been one big boutique style clandestine orgy that had gone awry and the mysterious Mr Sherlock Holmes had deduced it all within two minutes of arriving at the crime scene. 

The distraught Ms. Reynolds, all four foot ten inches of her, barely six and a half stone’s worth of her, had been easily apprehended at her flat, having a nervous break-down with the murder weapon tucked neatly in her designer handbag and was, at the moment, confessing in the interrogation room in the presence of her solicitor and her psychiatrist. Case closed. 

Two hours later, Sally had a suitable ‘un-official draft’ of the case printed out and placed neatly in the file folder for Lestrade’s approval; then her mobile rang. 

-o0o-

Raz was many things; drug pusher wasn’t one of them. A man with connections, yes, he’d admit to that; but as far as Sherlock Holmes was concerned, primarily he was his laundry man. 

A knock on his door from Sherlock meant a shopping trip: high-end electronics usually, or whatever the shiny new bling flavor was on that particular day, paid for with Sherlock’s card. 

Tonight, Sherlock’s knock had them searching all the little custom computer shops for the best deal on expensive and ultra-powerful gaming systems: but only those with all components in stock, so it could be built, tested out and taken away before the metal security grates of the store front came down for the night. Raz had a standing buyer and cash in pocket to hand over to Sherlock once the transaction cleared the chip and PIN machine. 

Raz toyed with one of the shop’s specialty consoles as he eyed the man quietly pacing the length of the counter. 

Sherlock was his best client; he had known him since he was just a kid and Sherlock a soon-to-be uni dropout. Sherlock was an easy mark _... well, only because he didn’t care… He didn’t care about anything or anyone when we’d first met, least of all, himself. Walking suicide,_ Raz had always called them; someone just waiting for their body to hit the floor. And looking at him now, over a decade later: he still was _… pity that, because I will…miss him._

This was significant transaction, considerably more than the previous few had been. He knew Sherlock’s preferences and his idiosyncrasies: Sherlock never procured more than two days’ worth, three at the most and he generally didn’t do street junk; strictly medical grade diacetylmorphine and liquid cocaine, specialty items and hard to get on a regular basis, but purer than street stuff. 

Raz figured that was a toss-up: no risk of a bad cut if your dealer was honest, _but then again, how honest could they be if they were skimming medical supplies from a hospital or the like,_ or take the chance of getting the mix wrong and injecting yourself with pure heroin or a toxic hit of cocaine accidentally. 

He glanced at Sherlock again, seeing the slight jerk in his arms, the slight twitch in his face as he paced, and considered calling the whole deal off. This particular order had waited almost three years to get filled already 

The shop owner put the screwdriver down on the counter and slapped the side of the matte gunmetal housing. He asked Raz, “So, what do you want to test it out with?” 

-o0o-

“Yes, Nan, I’m going to be home late. Just put him in my room. I’ll make up the couch when I get home. I don’t know, two…” She looked at the case file again and thought about the hour and a half drive to Nan’s. 

“No…probably be closer to three hours yet. I know, but I don’t have a place to stay here yet, do I? I’m sorry, just get him cleaned up and make sure he goes to school tomorrow, okay. I’ll take him to see Mum on Sunday, that’ll calm him down a bit. Yeah, I know it’s almost Thursday already. Well I can kip can’t I? Yes, if I can. I don’t know yet. Lestrade has this friend and… No, Nan, I have, I met him today. I know. I will. Nan, I got to go, okay, we’ll talk later. Good night.” She closed the mobile with a sigh and rubbed her temples. 

Sally picked up the case file and checked it over again. _How did he do that?_

_Who exactly are you, Sherlock Holmes?_ Sally looked at the computer terminal blinking absently at her on the desk. She could, _yes, she would,_ run a check on him, which was well within her authority, no outside permissions needed. 

“Let’s see about you,” she said out loud to no one in particular as she keyed the letters S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K–space-H-O- into the system and it auto-completed the rest. 

She was expecting the usual minimal address and identification information page to come up; she wasn’t expecting the twenty-plus pages of arrest records that followed behind it. That grabbed her attention and she bypassed the info page in favor of the arrest details. 

Criminal history going back nearly ten years; drugs busts mostly, but also: trespassing, vagrancy, pick-pocketing, two minor assaults, non-sexual in nature. _Not a perv then._ A good portion of the arrests listed Gregory Lestrade as the arresting officer, _interesting._ Absolutely no convictions, no cautions of any kind and no record of any time served other that brief bouts in the cells while awaiting formal questioning. No recorded summonses to magistrate’s court, let alone Crown Court; which by the appearance of the records, never came. 

She continued scrolling down the page: 

Locked file: 1987. 

Locked file: 1984. _Expunged? Juvenile incidents?_

Some of the other records were incomplete, as if they had been at least partially expunged, others were locked, password protected. That was definitely non-standard though she had seen it before, usually under certain circumstances, such as a royal using an assumed name, national or international witness protection or diplomatic immunity. That would make it difficult to get any information of real value. 

_Who the bloody hell are you?_ She clicks back to the ID page. 

Sherlock Holmes, 31, _four years older than me, older than he looks. Picture’s fairly recent, looks like it was taken here, and the background matches the paint._

Place of birth: York. 

Date of Birth: 06 January, 1976. 

Father: Sherrinford Holmes, deceased March, 1998: one time minor politician, short stint with security services, former CEO or Senior Board member of several large conglomerates covering a ridiculously wide area of interests. _He’s from a rich family, then, obviously._

Mother: Adeline Patrescu-Holmes, French national; Romanian/French ethnic origins; attained British citizenship, May 1967; PhD, Girton, 1971; Cambridge, 1973; currently residing in… Monaco… _Monaco?_ Still maintains the York address _… and a residence in one of the oldest, poshest sections of the city. There’s a picture of her…God! Beautiful, vaguely… familiar…clearly see where he gets it from._

Brother: Mycroft Holmes, contact information encrypted. _Mycroft, unusual name, heard that one in the news, someone significant then._

Alternate emergency contact: Gregory Lestrade _…most interesting…_ along with a departmental note affixed to contact him first. Quite adamant about that, by the wording of it, Lestrade’s initials at the bottom. 

_Old money, with national and inter-national connections and a diverse financial base,_ she scoffed _… explains some of it._ She kept reading. 

Harrow: standard student identification files, 1985 to 1994 _… public school boy then…cute kid._

Cambridge: student ID’s 1995, 1996, _attended two years, did not graduate…_

Sally’s curiosity piqued, a trip to the Cambridge data base indicated that grades were not an issue, some slight disciplinary issues, but it listed no reasons for dismissal _…ah, he wasn’t dismissed, simply didn’t return for the third year of undergraduate studies._ Financial records showed significant contributions by the family, both past and present, and a student status that, though inactive, was updated to cover at least an additional six years of tuition at the current rates. _Filthy rich, that’s more than I will make in a life time, sitting there in the uni coffers._

Current address: Old Montague Street, East London 

Telephone number: indicating a mobile _…he’s had the same number for over two years, some stability then..._

It was a respectable amount of information, none of which really helped in figuring out Sherlock Holmes. It alluded to a good amount of mystery too, and Sally was determined to solve this – this, Sherlock Holmes. -o0o- 

It was well after midnight when Sally gathered her belongings and headed for the exit, nearly bumping into Lestrade coming out of his office on her way. 

"What are you still doing here? “ 

“Report on the boutique case is done, draft of it anyway.” She went to reach for it on her desk but he waved it off. 

“We’ll go over that tomorrow, how we handle Sherlock…officially. That all?” 

“Got a call from my Nan, took a bit and did a little research on the system.” She did not elaborate the nature of the research. 

“I’d offer my couch, but the head office frowns on that.” He said jokingly. He wanted to ask if she found anything interesting about Sherlock; wondering if she would ask about the records discrepancies now or later, but she wasn’t offering any tipoffs on her thoughts. 

“So, what did you think of Sherlock?” Bluntness was always his preferred method of bridging a question. 

“He’s amazing, what he does, it’s amazing. Is he always spot-on like that?” 

“No, not always.” 

“You said he was a junkie” 

“Ex-junkie” 

“I worked drugs squad for five years, but you know that. There’s really no such thing, only junkies that aren’t using. Is he using?” 

“Says he’s not. Don’t know.” 

“That’s why you suggested this, innit? You want me to check up on him, don’t you?” 

"Astute observation, Detective. Look, you don’t have to do this, if you’ve got any reservations about it.” 

Actually, she had a few, but she also needed a place to stay that was not an hour and a half out and not filled with a batch of younger siblings and nephews, and was not, as it usually ended up, her grandmother’s couch. 

“God knows,” Lestrade went on. “It won’t affect my opinion of your service here, well, except you might get a few points for good sense if you decide against it.” He chuckled to lighten the mood. 

“You said his flat’s a studio, a loft?” 

“But big, plenty of room for privacy,” he wavered a bit and then added, “I’ll stop by after you get settled. We’ll fix something up.” 

"A studio, is it big enough for that, then?” 

Like I said, it’s a renovation, kind of. About ten years ago, the owners got about half way through the building before the bottom fell out and never finished the top two floors. Kitchen’s modern, bath too, but the rest… It’s got a terrace on the roof. We really ** _can_** fix something up. He’s got his bed in the utilities box.” He stopped there; any more along these lines would not be helping. 

"Guess you figure I won’t fall victim to his charms, then.” 

"I didn’t know he had any. Usually he’s… a bit of a dick.” 

Anything else I should know?” 

He plays the violin,” Lestrade did not mention Sherlock’s usual timing for that, “… and well, he’s kind of a slob. But if you keep at him, he’ll pick up - a bit.” 

Sally couldn’t help chuckle a little, she was, by nature, messy too, not that she would admit to it. 

And you will probably be accosted by his brother’s people before a week is out, ‘black sheep’, and all that.” 

Yeah, familiar with those,” she said. “Is he okay with this arrangement?” 

“Sherlock is rarely ‘okay’ with anything, but it is fine, it’s all fine,” his last words trailed off quietly. He sincerely hoped that it was going to be. 

He said he’d be home Friday night after shift.” 

What’s the address again?”

-o0o-

Morning was slowly turning the March sky over East London a slightly more luminous shade of grey and gooseflesh rose on Sherlock’s arms as he stepped out onto the roof of the building in t-shirt and pajama pants. He held the needle up and flicked the last tiny bubble out of it as mist moved past the light outside the flat. 

Popping it would do; he had a flat to straighten later and really didn’t feel like calling Mycroft to send someone. 

The London morning mist clung to everything as if unsure about deciding whether or not to rain today and strains of Grieg’s sonata in G major met the chilly dawn. 


	2. A Morning in the Life and The Case of the Aged Yorkie.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Newly promoted DS Sally Donovan has a few issues at home and Sherlock has a slight row at a crime scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Part Two is going to be posted in at least three sections. This is the first.

**Part Two:** Of Floor Joists, and Vindaloo 

**(Section One: A Morning in the Life and The Case of the Aged Yorkie.)**

Sally caught a grand total of two hours and thirty-nine minutes of sleep on Nan’s couch before the herd of school aged boys came thundering in on their way to the kitchen for toast and jam. Aunt Marg’s boys were always up, alert, dressed and ready to go out the door without prodding; her brothers, however… 

Little Janie, Marg’s youngest, and the only girl in the batch came and bounced on Sally’s stomach and pushed a tattered Paddington Bear into her face with a big ‘smooch’ as a morning greeting and Sam and Johnny came scurrying in, running late, as usual. They were never completely combed, tucked or tied and Sally did a little straightening on each as they gave her a morning kiss. 

“Where’s Danny?” Sally asked the other two. 

“‘E’s being a lay-about again,“ Sam was proud to announce to his big Sis, tattling was something he had recently rediscovered to the chagrin of both his older brothers. Sally looked for confirmation on John’s face; when confronted Johnny always gave in and admitted the truth. 

“Says he’s n-not going to school today,” he stammered slightly. “He says he’s sick.” 

“ ** _Is_** he sick?” Sally asked with her best authoritative adult voice. Sam all too quickly nodded a ‘yes’ and Johnny reluctantly shook a ‘no’ with both of them looking at each other sheepishly. That told her what she needed to know. 

“Well then, we’ll just go and see about that, won’t we? Off now, you two, before all the jam is gone, don’t be late to school.” She added a last minute, “and drink some milk,” after them. 

She gave Janie a big smile as she set her down, patted her on her way and got up to go rattle the eldest of her younger siblings out of bed. 

Nan’s couch was a bit too small and soft for a proper bed and Sally was still working the expected kinks out when Nan came in with coffee. She had already taken a deep drink when the face came. Sally normally took her coffee white and Nan boiled the grounds to within an inch of their lives, always. 

“Sorry, dear, out of milk. I’ll get some on my way home.” Nan said collecting little Janie. “That’s all of them off except this one and…”

“I know. I’ll take care of it. I’ll drive him to school, too.” She said grimacing over Nan’s strong brew. “Need to see that he gets there,” she did not trust him to get there on his own on days like this, all too often he didn’t. “No worries, Nan. You need to be off now too, before the Tube gets crowded.” Nan nodded and was out the door, little Janie and Paddington in tow. 

Sally took another draught of Nan’s strong coffee and started up the stairs to deal with her brother, the problem child. 

Danny would be thirteen next month and Sally was still quite capable of handling him, but she had already begun to worry about the day she would no longer be able to and that day was coming all too soon. 

“Oi, lazybones. Up. Now.” She gave the blankets a tug. 

“Piss off!” the muffled reply came from underneath. He yanked the blanket edge from her hands. 

“Right then, this again,” Sally said quietly under her breath. She took a deep breath; crossed her arms in authority, and calmly tapped her toe and began to count to ten. _At least… four… give him a chance… five… to…six…_ She only made it to seven before she grabbed the carry handles on the mattress and gave them a good pull and a flip, rolling her brother to the wall on the box springs. 

Danny popped out of the tangle of bed covers looking venom at his sister, but got up and stepped over the disheveled mattress. 

“Fifteen minutes, I’ll drive you, and make the bed.” She said, arms still crossed and toes still tapping. 

Danny opened his mouth to reply but was stopped by Sally’s best scowl. He grabbed his clothes and started for the loo. 

“Fifteen minutes!” She said after him, firmly, and then headed back downstairs to finish her coffee. _Maybe I’ll see if there is any toast left for him,_ she thought. 

Twenty-five minutes later, Sally was standing by the door of the flat, coat over pyjamas and keys in hand. 

“Come on or you’re going to be late.” He was already on his last truant, next slip-up and he’d be out of the house, in temporary care somewhere, or worse. 

“Well look at you, all decked out like some ‘gangsta rappa’.” She said teasing him a bit. “You look alright, could smell better; you smell like a pub.” 

Sally’s nose was well trained from her years on the drugs squad and that was coming in quite handy in dealing with her little brother; she gave a subtle sniff, it generally worked better than asking to find out where he was and what he was doing last night. He had only washed up, not showered and his clothes while looking clean were not freshly laundered, he’d worn them before. The hoodie in particular, could stand a wash, it was his favourite but it told on him quite well. 

_Old smoke, just tobacco, this time…_ she did not want to give her ‘I still can arrest you for that, you know’ speech, yet again, not this early _… spilled beer and possibly some gin… out playing grown-up with his mates again._

Danny was still young enough to be embarrassed by the teasing comments about his looks from his sister and it showed as he grabbed the toast she offered on their way out the door and popped it into his mouth. But, he was also old enough to feel resentful of all the ‘parental’ attention from his older sibling, she was not his mother, no Mum was in jail. Sam and Johnny always looked to him for answers as to why their Mum was there, why they had to stay first at Sally’s, then all of them at Nan’s. 

But big Sister Sally just had to be a copper and a nosey one at that. He had been so proud of that fact when he was little, just as Sam and John are now, but since he had started to have his own run-ins with the local police – not so much. 

Conversation during the trip to school dwindled down after the usual barrage of ‘do you have your assignments done for today’ and ‘how are you getting on in maths,’ and the equally usual mumbled answers to the same, into awkward silence for several minutes as they sat in traffic. 

“Going to see Mum on Sunday,” Sally said. 

“Right, tell her I said ‘cheers.’” He found something apparently extremely interesting out the passenger window and fixed a hard gaze there. 

“You can tell her yourself, you’re going.” 

“Not going. ‘M busy Sunday.” 

“With what?” 

He shrugged. “Don’t know yet, going out with my mates.” 

“But you don’t know what you’re planning on doing, something for school?” Sally hoped it was, but deep down, she knew it wasn’t. 

He did not answer just kept staring out the window. 

“I thought not - just trouble then. You know your mates won’t stand up for you. They didn’t last time and they won’t now and you know it. And you know you’ve been tagged and have to be in on the weekends. You **_are_** coming with us to see Mum, we haven’t all been since school started.” 

“You aren’t even going to be there Sunday. You’re moving out this weekend, remember.” 

“Yeah, I am, maybe, probably, but I’ll be there to get you and you had better be there too.” 

He mumbled something that sounded like ‘why should I?’ 

“Because me and the blokes from work will come and find you that’s why and it won’t be pretty, you know, you’ve been arrested before. It was all Nan and I could do to keep you with us then, I can’t do anymore. Look, Danny, you know that you’ve got no more credit with your social worker; you’ve used it all up. One more stunt and you are gone, out of the house, in foster-care, and we can’t get you back this time. Nan can’t get you back and I can’t get you back and where does that leave Sam and Johnny? There won’t be much family left when Mum does get out - will there?” 

“But…”

“No ‘buts’. You are going, and you had better be there and ready when I come to pick you all up. ” 

There was silence until the car door slammed. The slam wasn’t as loud as Sally was expecting and she watched the school doors close behind her brother. She waited there, parked in front, for a few minutes just to make sure he didn’t sneak right back out. Convinced that he didn’t, _not through that door at least,_ she pulled out. Not a hundred metres along a light came on the control panel. 

_Damn, need petrol again._ Sally pulled into the station a little later and realized that they had probably never seen her in anything other than pyjamas. 

By the time she got back to Nan’s there was just enough time to shower and change and get to work for the dinner relief shift. 

-o0o-

The afternoon proved to be light on the workload: one case, an eighty-six year old man found with his head bashed in with a stepstool; door locked from the inside. Holmes was called in; it seems locked door cases where one of his specialties. 

Sherlock had taken one look at the crime scene and launched into a tirade on the absolute stupidity of the entire Yard. Lestrade and most of the forensics team were in the fray with the Consulting Detective taking the brunt of it. 

Sally stayed out of shouting range as best she could and took advantage of the time to look around. 

The angle of the body was odd, she noted. There had been a tussle though from the looks of it; the coffee table was pushed at an angle against the sofa and its contents, _the old man had been an avid magazine reader, apparently,_ scattered about the floor. The throw rug beneath it bunched against its legs. The hem of the old man’s pyjama bottoms was damp and ripped; something had spilled, she thought, and looked around for a glass or cup, none to be found. 

She noted that the couch had been reupholstered long ago and had exposed nail heads - that could have caused the rips during the tussle. There was a trail of blood from the old man’s head to the stepstool which was several metres away. She asked the forensics photographer if that was where it was when they came in and the photographer nodded a yes. 

The distance precluded a simple fall from the stool, _but maybe, if he was changing a bulb or something,_ and there **_was_** a ceiling light directly above. But no, all the bulbs were burning; though, she thought there might be a slight flicker in the one. 

The stool was old and wooden and had been painted several times by the looks of the chips and scuffs on it. It was a bit worn on the legs, like something had been chewing on it. Some of the marks had been painted over, others looked more recent, but overall, it seemed sturdy enough. 

_He could have just fallen while changing a bulb, but the stool is too far away. Where’s the light bulb, then? It could have rolled under the couch. Or -someone was here, they tussled with the old man, hit him over the head, killed him then, what – jumped out the window? No, window is shut, presumably locked. Killer is still here then…silly, no one here that isn’t supposed to be, except…_

“Are you going to arrest the dog then? She’s the one that did it.” Sherlock was shouting. 

“What dog?” Lestrade and the others asked in unison.

In a most timely fashion, shrill and fierce yips came suddenly from beneath the couch as the coroner’s team lifted the stretcher with the body to remove it. 

“Little thing’s been huddled, shivering in fear, under there the entire time.” 

One of the coroner’s team tried to grab the aged and greyed Yorkshire terrier who was now rather vehemently defending her master’s cold body and nearly had a finger snapped off in exchange for his efforts. 

Sherlock snatched the dog up, gave it a quick scratch behind the ears to quiet it and shoved it toward Sally who happened to be the closest. He turned to storm out in a huff. 

“Wait, Sherlock… the step-stool?” Lestrade said. “It was the blunt object,” he paused and turned to forensics and asked, “Correct?” Forensics all nodded in concurrence. “It was found over there, too far for him to have slipped off and hit his head on it **__**” he added, “…it looks as if there was a fight, as if he was resisting someone.”

“Plus, if he was changing a bulb, where is it?” This came smugly from one of the junior forensics’ team members, a cocky chap named Anderson. 

“Maybe it rolled under the couch?” Sally offered, after all, it was what she had been thinking. 

The comment had the entire room staring at her, the Yorkie still squirming in her arms. Lestrade gave a nod to the other members of the team to move the sofa. Amidst several half eaten dog treats and well chewed chew toys was one shiny, new light bulb. 

Sherlock gave a disgruntled ‘humph’ and turned to face the wall while they considered the new found evidence. 

“Sherlock, walk us through this,” Lestrade finally asked. 

“You lot wouldn’t see the obvious if it bit you, would you?” Sherlock directed that last at forensics; they had been the most adamant against it. 

“Just, can’t see the dog doing it, okay,” Lestrade added calmly, “Now, give it. Please.” 

After a moment, Sherlock walked to the center of the room, just under the light fixture and just over where the body of the old man had lain. 

“He was trying to change the bulb on the…” Sherlock squinted at the ceiling fixture trying to determine which bulb had started the whole thing, “…left, it’s intermittent. Flickers every three minutes, or so,” he was a bit hesitant on the timing; it was intermittent, after all. 

“The stool would have been about here,” he gestured. “And the coffee table there next to it. It would have been a stretch for him; therefore he probably had shaky footing on the stool. The dog was barking at him, she wanted him down; more sense than people sometimes,” he added half under his breath. More confident now, he continued. “She jumped and caught this pyjama leg. Its damp, dog slobber, and the tears in the hem will match the Yorkie’s teeth. That threw his balance off, he started to fall. He tried to check the fall by stepping on the coffee table but slid on the magazines, pushing the coffee table into the sofa. Hit his head on the stool.” 

“But the stool was found over there. How’d it get there?” 

“Dog dragged it away. Look at the blood patterns on the carpet, splotchy. It was moved little by little leaving the blood in patches as she pulled it along. The teeth marks on the leg of the stool, they are hers. Check it, you will find the freshest ones occurred just shortly after time of the fall.” 

“I don’t think that little old thing is capable of dragging a step-stool that size.” Anderson argued. 

“I don’t know about that, “ Sally added, trying to contain the fidgeting Yorkie. “She seems pretty strong.” 

Sally caught a faint twitch of Sherlock’s lip that could be construed as a smile, just as she had to lunge to keep hold of the struggling Yorkie. 

Sherlock took full advantage of the opportunity to take his leave, but not without having the last word. 

“So if you are charging the dog with murder, then the Sergeant there has your suspect in custody and you should get on with it. If not, then you have just spent the better part of your afternoon, and mine, investigating an old man who fell while changing a light bulb. That should go down in the annals of New Scotland Yard. Good day.” He turned and strode off. 

Lestrade could not quite keep a straight face, even though the insult was, in effect, directed at him; it was both so accurate and so utterly absurd that he could not help it. 

Sally still wasn’t entirely sure that the dog did it; she was a cute little thing. This was definitely looking like an accident, not murder, and it did all seem a bit silly. She was left in charge of the Yorkie until the animal control unit arrived. 

-o0o-

Late afternoon progressed quietly into evening as the lull in cases allowed for the persistent backlog of paperwork to be attended to. Sherlock had popped quietly into Lestrade’s office several hours after their earlier row, looking a bit disheveled, _as if Dolce and Gabbana would ever look bad, not on that…_ just a quick visit, Sally noted, and apparently neither man bore grudges over case disagreements. The Consulting Detective emerged from Lestrade’s office looking a bit more normal and was now going over the report on the Yorkie case and a few others he had snatched from the DI’s in-box. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sally said, louder than she had intended, trying to get his attention. 

“Yes. Donovan, is it?” He stopped shuffling through the reports and eyed her once over, not bothering to disguise the fact that he was doing it, then went back to paging through the reports. 

She was used to people eyeing her over, men especially; they had been doing it since she was ten. This was not that, definitely not. She wasn’t a sex object to him; _obviously,_ she thought _… why is it that the good-looking, interesting ones always… where the hell is that thought coming from! Get a grip Detective Sergeant! Now!_ No, she was just an object and not a particularly interesting one at that from the looks of him. She wasn’t exactly sure how to take this - Sherlock Holmes person, not at all. 

“It’s ‘Sally’,” she said. 

“Sherlock.” 

It wasn’t a nicety, more of a pre-programmed automatic response. She could tell by his tone. _Alright then…_

“Lestrade said you might have room at your flat for a temporary lodger?” 

“I might, provided that they are not an annoyance to me.” 

_Well, if he isn’t a right git…_

His eyes flashed at her, just then, like cold forged steel, as if he’d heard her thoughts and was offended by them. It sent a chill through her. 

_Those damn eyes, those chameleon eyes…_ Magnus Donovan had eyes like that. _Mum always said that was what attracted her to him - that and ‘drunken merchant marines - just something about them’, she had always said._

“I assume you will want to see it?” 

It took a few seconds for his question to register, a few seconds for her to shake away from the icy draw of those eyes. 

“Oh, um, yes… soon. I really need to find something by Monday.” 

“Tonight, then,“ he said, finally returning his attention to the reports. 

“Actually, I can’t tonight. There are some family issues I have to attend to.” She particularly wanted to make sure Danny was going to settle down a bit and not give Nan any trouble after she moved out – she would have to have the ‘why I’m moving out and away from you, when I still love you all’ talk again, probably to all three of them, as Sam and John were both very susceptible to Danny’s moods. “Tomorrow…” she suggested. 

“Tomorrow’s fine, I’ll be home all day unless something more interesting turns up. Lestrade did give you my mobile? The building can be tricky to find, ring if you need directions.” 

Oddly, that conversation had gone better than she had expected and she hoped the next one would as well. 

Miraculously, Sally got home a little before midnight and was able to catch her oldest little brother before he went to bed. 

TBC...

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The first 12,500 words of this fic (American English version) comprised my final exam for College Creative Writing class for the spring 2012 semester. This is a fandom that I have tried to write in the past, many years before the wonderful BBC version brought it up to the present day, and swore that I would never try again, now it is vying for precious writing time with my other WIP’s (and, I am now the official WIP queen, with seven works in progress in three different fandoms.)
> 
> Here is chapter one and the first section of chapter twp in their Brit-picked incarnation, beta’d and Brit picked by the lovely ariana_paris and the wonderful purplesnowball any remaining Americanisms and other errors are my own.
> 
> Expect the next part of chapter two in a few weeks, (sorry I am a slow writer who has a RL to deal with,) and the rest of chapter two (of at least five) by the end of May/ early June.


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